


Twilight

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Futurefic, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-27
Updated: 2003-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-01 09:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/355084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Twilight, Lionel ponders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight

## Twilight

by Tigerlily

<http://www.livejournal.com/users/tigerlily2035/>

* * *

The strong afternoon sun streams through my window and I can't seem to enjoy its regality. Never did. The people milling around the gardens of the castle keep on rejoicing on the fact that is a clear day, perfect for sharing with family and friends, perfect for stolen kisses and laughter. 

I can't even muster mockery at their cheap sentimentality. 

The Scottish Castle has an extensive history of warriors and kings and feudal battles that ended in bloodshed. When I first brought the stones from Scotland and planted them on the grounds of one of my conquests, albeit a small and insignificant one, I imagined my heir to take his rightful place and rule his domain from here. Or at least, he'd know of the existence of such palace and he'd comprehend how important the Luthor legacy was, and how it was his duty to preserve it; to make it greater. But he decided to follow, not my teachings, but his foolish emotions. Hence, the current onslaught of peasants. 

How an historic building could become a place for picture perfect domesticity and fabled unity is beyond my comprehension. My son has lost it. 

I told him time and again that he was driven by his emotions. Weakened by his bouts of anger and his dramatics. Instead of being analytical over his surroundings, calculate every move before striking, he let himself be overpowered by his devotion to that farmer's son; the farmer, one of my most vociferous opponents. That sad hack Shakespeare would have had a ball writing this love story. 

Love. What a fallacy. I tried to teach Lex that the best he could hope for was for a suitable companion; a beautiful lady who could understand his destiny and be supportive when needed. He definitely didn't need another headstrong, independent woman like Lillian. Sure, I respected her. In fact, I liked her enough that I chose her to be the mother of my heir. But she was emotional, loving and more driven that I gave her credit for. And all the blueprints I had to help raise my son, she decimated with her kindness and her adoration for her Alexander. Her death was just the catalyst to turn Lex into a rebellious and needy teenager, instead of the strong man that I was trying to mold. Exile to Smallville was to be the turning point; where he would have finally understood his role and rule Metropolis, the country, even the world, like I always planned. 

The best laid plans of mice and men. 

I should have known the place that brought my son grief and the consequent will to defy me would also be the place where he would decide to make it on his own. Not just as a Luthor, but as Alexander. And he even acquired his Hephaestion. Clark; such a seemingly decent man; with his perpetual blushing, badly fitted clothes and his honesty and his overrated set of values. I don't know what my son sees in him. He is just a hick. And to think I once believed he was from another planet. He can't even go out the door without tripping over something. 

But is because of him that my son thinks twice before putting some company out of business; it is because of him that he smiles and jokes, and it is because of damn Clark Kent that I will die of old age, instead of murdered by an enemy or my own flesh and blood. I was ready to hand over my kingdom in a pool of my own blood. Instead I live in this castle, surrounded by my medieval weapons and my own Troy and constantly visited by people who see me as the senile father of Lex Luthor, not the feared and hated Lionel Luthor. I owe that farm boy this life. And for that, I despise him. 

I look out the window and I see them all: Martha Kent, as lovely with white hair as she was with red, still withering herself in this town. I see Jonathan Kent, with that perpetual scowl on his face, like the world owes him something. That traitorous Ms. Sullivan, who acts like she never once was hell bent on causing Clark grief. How lucky she is that all our suspicions were just smoke and mirrors and that young Mr. Kent has the capacity to forgive scorned teenagers. Nell's niece is here; as insignificant as her never ending sorrow is, and who would have thought that the once vibrant Mr. Ross would end up being that girl and my son's lap dog. Some people have fallen harder that I have, it seems. 

My sight sweeps the garden, looking for my son. I see the embracing couple lounging against an old tree, deep in conversation. Even from a distance, I can see the farm boy's blush and my son's smile. Lex tilts his head while petting his lover's hair, just looking at him like he is his north, his oasis. Suddenly, Lex just kisses him, probably to shut him up. The kiss becomes rather possessive, but even I can feel the heat and emotion behind it. Those two don't seem to need air; that's how long they're making a spectacle of themselves. Finally, Clark breaks the kiss, but my son, conqueror that he is, does not seem to abandon that activity without a fight; he grabs Clark and drags him away. I am certain they will use the stables to grope each other at leisure. At least some things never change, regardless of century. 

The sun is beginning to set, and I can't help to compare my life to it. Shone brightly once, unforgiving in nature and now, the twilight is coming slowly, peeking through the clouds like an exiled monarch, ashamed of its end. But I envy that sun, for tomorrow, it will rule again. I really never did. 

The one who was supposed to be my successor comes out with his stable boy, but instead of chastising or rebuking him, he grabs his hand and kisses it with so much affection, it stirs something in me. Lex joins his friends and, I supposed I have to admit, his family, with a blissful expression on his face. He treats Martha with something akin to veneration; he addresses that mule Jonathan with respect; respect he never gave me. He argues amiably with Mr. Ross and Ms. Sullivan. He even plays with the Ross' kids. He is not a ruler, he is a commoner. I know that he will be powerful; he is, after all, running for President. But he is too entrenched with these small town folks that I know that if he wins, he will be serving the people, not the other way around. 

His lov..Clark, stands next to him and murmurs something in his ear. My son, the rebel, the drug fiend, the Luthor, laughs freely and hugs Clark. He then turns him around and holds him from his waist, both facing the dying sun. The expressions on their faces convey their enjoyment for the show, a world of possibilities not ending with the day, but multiplying like the nascent stars. 

And for the second time in a day, in my life, I am envious. 


End file.
